Demonic or Angelic: Relative
by SoundlessSong
Summary: A oneshot for now.  This is a snapshot of sorts from a larger story idea, a sort of what-if.  Introspective piece; Valerie tries to understand an enigmatic figure she's never truly managed to pin down. I don't own DP!


**This is a oneshot at the moment. I know there'll be some things that don't make sense. At the moment, Danny's 17. The Disasteroid passed when he was 15, but his secret was not revealed to anyone new, and he remains a mystery to the world at large. Soon after the Disasteroid, Valerie almost killed Phantom, and later felt remorseful. The setting of this particular one-shot is where a group from school was kidnapped and taken away from Amity Park; Phantom has just saved them and is flying them back to the town. **

**There's a few more specifics but nothing I can say in a short paragraph. Note: This is NOT Danny x Valerie. No romance or romantic overtones intended.**

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><p><em>It's cold, and very quiet, way up here above the clouds. The sky is clearer than I've ever seen it; a beautiful black studded by diamond-bright stars. The star-studded expanse, though, dims as a much larger, closer luminescent shape commands my attention. I stare at the glowing figure, trying to ignore the way he shines; as though a piece of the moon has taken human form, or a star has lost its way. He's a ghost; a powerful, dangerous one at that. How can I think him beautiful?<em>

_Nevertheless, he is. Why can I not hate him now? _

_It might have something to do with the shame I feel... two years ago, the attack we launched on him, the only one that ever succeeded, I realize in some surprise. He never retaliated... never seemed to hold any grudge for it. _

_...Why?_

_I decide to ask, turning over awkwardly in the trail of aqua-blue ectoplasm that keeps us aloft behind him, trying to launch myself nearer to him. The others turn to look, surprised; some furrow their brows warily, aware now of my alter-identity and my past deeds toward the ghost-boy that carries us on through the endless sky. _

_He observes my approach; slows in his flight slightly, allowing me to approach him. He glides beside me, body streamlined and graceful, tapering from head to spectral tail in an aerodynamic arrow. An inquiring eyebrow arches at me. I have to marvel at his calmness; I am well aware that he knows my alter-identity, and there is no way he could have forgotten that. And yet... he treats me no differently._

"_Why don't you hate me?" I ask, needing to know._

"_I have no reason to."_

_This makes no sense. "That's not true."_

"_Yes, it is." He sighs. "Perhaps not to you... but then again, you aren't me."_

_I stare. "...Explain." My voice is, perhaps, a little rude... but I cannot think straight enough to remember my manners._

"_You only knew – know – what you've been taught," he replies slowly. "That ghosts – and me – are remnants of a human personality, born in ectoplasmic form to carry out the obsessions of the living. According to what you knew, I could have no benevolent intentions, and I had to be taken down before I could hurt anyone. I respect what you believe, even if I do not agree."_

"_That doesn't explain... why you don't hate me for it."_

"_I cannot hate one who does something in the full belief that it is the right thing."_

_I begin to speak, to protest; my vengeful feeling toward him began as nothing more than a petty anger at a mistake, hardly a belief that I was doing the right thing... but then I stop. He's right; I did go on, eventually, to move past pure vengeance and onto a protective kind of fury, once I'd begun to realize his true power. I had eventually become – or tried to become – what I'd originally professed, inaccurately, to be: a protector of the town... by hunting him._

_I can think of nothing to say to him now. To the right and a little below us, everyone else has gone quiet; what little conversation there was has stopped. They are listening, struggling just as much as I to understand the quiet enigma beside me._

"_How do we know it isn't?" I ask at last, a little hopelessly. I cannot keep holding onto the impression that he is evil... the number of times he's proved otherwise is incredible, even as we curse him for what he is. "How do we know that you won't... change?" If he did, we would be lost... and I suppose that's the reason I still cannot trust him; the realization that he could destroy us in a heartbeat._

"_You don't," he whispers. "I don't." His voice firms, becomes resolute. "But I have no intention on changing." A beat, where the only sound is the rushing wind; breaths from those around us as the clouds shift around us. Amity Park can't be far away now; he is a fast flier. "Just remember... there are always two sides to a coin."_

"_Huh?" I don't understand._

"_There are two sides to a coin. You're right, when you say I am dangerous... a threat to humanity." His voice is frank. "However... you never acknowledge that the reverse is also true."_

"_What do you mean?"_

_He flies quietly for a moment, before a small smile flickers across his lips, secretive, almost sad. He reaches out a hand; white ectoplasm curls into blue, wisps of cloud curling upwards and gathering in a little ball in his hand. The cloud-ectoplasm solidifies; his hand glows blue, ice forming and shaping into the shape of a small bird. A songbird of some kind. He holds it up for my inspection. _

_It's a perfectly formed little thing. A chickadee. Every feather is detailed; the beady eyes could almost blink... but the colors are wrong; it's made of ice, it is merely a sculpture. I look quizzically at him. _

_His hand glows white now. "Watch." He flips over onto his back, flying backwards without missing a beat, holding the ice-bird over his belly as he cups it in both gloved hands. It glows, too, floating in the sphere of white ectoplasm that suddenly surrounds it. I watch, fascinated. _

_Before my eyes, it changes. Color blooms inside it, as white ectoplasm compresses and shifts, becoming something else that I cannot yet comprehend. The change grows; the colors shift... and he holds a lifelike sculpture in his hands now, no longer ice. How did he do that? What is he trying to do?_

_He looks at the bird for a moment, then reaches out one finger to touch its head. A spark of white ectoplasm flashes from him to it... and it moves._

_I nearly break my neck as I double take. What?_

_The bird shivers, lifts its head, blinks beady black eyes. Dimly, I hear gasps of pure shock from the others, but the only thing I can register is the little cheeps as the tiny chickadee nestles into its creator's hand, fluffy and very much alive. There's nothing supernatural about it now. _

_He lifts his glowing eyes to meet my stunned ones, calm and quiet. "One's ability to destroy is always matched by their ability to create, Valerie," he whispers. "You're absolutely right. I _could _destroy you. It would not be hard." He pauses, strokes the bird's head. It makes a little chirping sound, and stares up at him, fearless. "I won't."_

_The bird stands up, balancing in his palm. It stretches its wings, looking around, bored with us. With a few experimental flaps, it hops off his hand and falls; never having flown before, it takes several moments before it manages to catch itself and glide, awkwardly fluttering upwards back to his hand. He smiles. "Why destroy... when creation is so much more rewarding?"_

_My only response is an awed sort of squeak. It's embarrassing... but at the moment I don't care._

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><p><strong>I don't really know where this came from... just sort of... speculation I guess. This is part of a much larger story that's floating in my peripheral vision; I don't know if I'll write it, since it seems juuust a little improbable. However... just something about that... it belonged in italics, and it wanted to be written. I suppose I'll have to see... do you want to see the rest of the story?<strong>


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